The week after Ravenclaw's victory was chaos.Every corridor in Hogwarts buzzed with the same words — "Firebolt," "Cho Chang," and "fastest broom alive." Even first-years whispered about the violet flames that trailed her dives.
Roy, walking with Hermione and Daphne toward Charms, couldn't help smirking each time he caught a stray comment. The Liyue Store banners that some Ravenclaws had conjured in pride still fluttered on the walls.
The Gryffindor Response
In the Gryffindor locker room, Oliver Wood's expression was grim enough to make the Weasley twins flinch.
"We're not losing to a broom," Wood barked. "If Ravenclaw can fly lightning, we'll fly thunder!"
His plan: triple-length practices, every evening until the next match.By the second day, Harry's arms ached, and Fred swore his broom had developed sentience just to escape training.
After practice, the twins slumped near Roy in the courtyard, half-dead.
"If Wood doesn't stop," George groaned, "we'll need those Firebolts just to survive, not compete.""I could design a charm for stamina," Roy teased, "but it'll cost you prototype royalties."They groaned louder.
The Map and the Night Patrol
A week later, whispers of "Firebolt enchantments" gave way to new gossip — Harry Potter caught by Snape after curfew.
It began when Harry, restless under Wood's regimen, borrowed the Marauder's Map to stretch his legs.He hadn't expected the name "Peter Pettigrew" to slither across the parchment — a ghost from stories, a dead man walking.He followed the trail into the dungeons, only to run head-first into Professor Snape's dark robes.
The next morning, the Great Hall hummed with tension.
"Fifty points from Gryffindor!" someone exclaimed."For sneaking around again!"
At the Gryffindor table, scowls turned toward Harry. Even Hermione looked torn.Roy, passing by with the Hufflepuffs, watched the silent meal. The lightning-scarred boy stared at his porridge; the red-haired one beside him muttered angrily.
Ron's Decline
Roy's sharp eyes caught what most missed.Ron Weasley's laugh — once loud and awkward — had grown brittle.His temper shorter, his words sharper.Where once he defended his friends, now he barked at them.
A fight broke out in the common room one evening; Roy overheard through the enchanted wall.
"You think you're better than me just 'cause you've got a broom, Harry?" Ron shouted."That's not what I said!" Harry's voice snapped back.The argument ended with slammed doors and silent tears.
Roy leaned back in his chair in the Hufflepuff study lounge, eyes distant.He already knew the cause — the diary's lingering corruption, subtle as poison.But this was not the time to intervene.
"Let the thread unwind," he murmured to himself. "Some lessons can't be taught by saving them."
Hermione, seated nearby and revising Arithmancy, glanced up.
"What did you say?"Roy smiled faintly. "Just thinking about the cost of a Firebolt's fame."
Hogwarts, that winter, was a castle split between awe and unease.Ravenclaws celebrated every lap of Cho Chang's broom; Gryffindors drilled to exhaustion under Wood's commands.And in the quiet corners, Roy watched — a patient strategist, a silent guardian — waiting for the storm he already saw forming on the horizon.